under the porch
in the swing by the pool --
nothing quiet,
everything a riot of crick
and creak and whine.
Who knew such tiny things
could moan and click
so loud? The lowing cow,
the cawing crow,
that hootie hoo hoo
in the woods
over and over
until dusk itself
hovers then grows wings,
whose soft brush in flight
fills with hush
the night.
